Page 62 of Formula Fling

My driver, dressed in a crisp white thobe, glances in the rearview mirror as we approach the security gates. We haven’t spoken a word since I gave my destination to him and I was lost in my own thoughts on the short drive from Manama.

I fidget with the silk scarf around my neck. I’d done my research before coming here and while non-Muslim women are not required to wear head coverings in Bahrain as it’s a relatively liberal country compared to other Gulf nations, modest clothing is encouraged, and I complied. Not necessarily out of respect but mostly because my clothing is modest by nature.

As soon as the driver halts in front of the entrance reserved for people with race credentials, I thank him in Arabic, one of the few phrases I’ve memorized. He smiles and repeats in accented English, “My pleasure. Have fun tonight.”

When I step out, I can actually feel the pulse in the air. My own heartbeat gallops as my nerves battle between the excitement of watching Lex and my fear that he might get hurt.

I make my way through the special entrance reserved for race team members and VIPs, flashing the credentials Harley gave me earlier. The security guard, a stern-faced man in a traditional ghutra, nods as I pass but as soon as I’m through the gates, it’s like stepping into another world. The paddock is just ahead, but getting there means weaving through a sea of fans.

The circuit holds upward of seventy thousand people across a handful of grandstands and I stare in wonder at the mix—families with young kids wearing oversized racing hats, groups of men in traditional Bahraini attire, flowing white thobes and ghutras, standing shoulder to shoulder with fans in jeans and team jerseys. I even spot a few women in brightly colored abayas, their faces lit up with excitement as they chat animatedly and wave flags for their favorite teams.

Some fans are decked out head to toe in Crown Velocity gear, complete with silver, black and green hats, while others proudlywear their favorite driver’s colors such as red, yellow and black for Italia Forza or the new team colors of purple, silver and white of Titans Racing to match their sister sports team, the Pittsburgh Titans. Although I’m a Crown Velocity fan first and foremost, I do plan on buying a Titans Racing hat while I’m here.

I take my time before entering the paddock, soaking in the experience of being among the fans. The merchandise booths bustle with people lining up to grab last-minute souvenirs—hats, scarves, replica race car models. The smell of food wafts through the air, too, from traditional shawarma stands to more international fare. There’s even a line of teenage boys in Ronan Barnes T-shirts, trying to get selfies with anything remotely connected to the sport.

The energy is simply electric, and I know that it will only increase as we get closer to the race. I have to wait in a short line to enter the paddock, my credentials within easy reach as they hang around my neck. I text Maeve that I’m here and she immediately responds that she’s on her way to meet me at the entrance. We plan to walk around the paddock, taking in all the sites as the teams hustle through last-minute preparations. Then we’ll sit in the Batelco Grandstand for the race.

While I was more than welcome to watch from the Crown Velocity paddock club, I wanted to be in the thick of it with the fans. Maeve arranged for our seats, which she promised offered amazing views of the start and finish line as well as the main straight where crucial overtakes will occur.

I buzz through security into the paddock and the first thing I do is look up at one of the dozens of massive electronic boards that show various camera angles as well as statistics once we’re underway. My chest tightens with pride when I see at the very top: Lex Hamilton, P1.

I relish that feeling as it envelops all my worry—the pressure, the expectations he must meet, and my desire for him more thananything to be safe. It hits me as I wait for Maeve, the sheer enormity of what being with Lex means. It’s not just us anymore—it’s the entire FI circus, the media, the fans, the teams. And I’m terrified that I don’t belong here, that I’m just playing pretend in a world that will chew me up and spit me out.

“Posey?” Maeve’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, and I see her walking toward me with a glowing smile. She’s wearing a Crown Velocity polo and black pants, her red curls pulled back under a racing cap. “Any problems getting here?”

“Easy peasy,” I assure her. “But I have to admit, I’m nervous as hell. And all of this is really overwhelming. I don’t think I understood what it meant to be with Lex until just now.”

Maeve gives me a sympathetic look. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, being in the middle of all this.”

“I’m afraid I don’t belong,” I admit to her in a moment of vulnerability. What I don’t confess is that I fear Lex will one day think the same thing because part of me wonders if this is just a novelty to him.

That’s what Ronan said, after all.

And this morning, he was so distant it’s easy for me to believe the worst, that maybe he’s tiring of me.

But no… that’s not Lex. I know it.

Maeve does too as she narrows her eyes and smacks my arm. “That’s silly talk. You’ve got Lex in your corner and from what I’ve seen, he’s pretty damn crazy about you. But enough of that. I am officially free to escort you around the paddock for a bit. Let’s go check out all the other teams.”

That makes me feel so much better and I manage a grateful smile. Maeve hooks her arm through mine and we get no more than three steps before someone shouts my name.

Actually, more than one someone.

Multiple people.

Maeve and I turn to see a gaggle of reporters trotting toward us and for a moment, I think they’re coming to talk to Maeve since she’s the communications manager.

“Posey,” one of them yells, and my heart sinks. They are not here for Maeve—and there’s only one reason they could want to talk to me.

“Posey,” a young guy with a buzzed haircut calls out before shoving a recorder in my face. “Can you comment on the allegations that you’ve been posing as a journalist to research Crown Velocity?”

Nausea wells so violently that I have to suppress the urge to vomit all over the man’s shoes. My skin goes cold as I feel blood draining from my face.

This isn’t happening.

This can’t be happening.

Not now.

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